


Team Human

by AkumaStrife



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Multi, Team Human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles set around our favorite token humans. Because when you're a mere mortal in the midst of monsters, you have to adapt as best you can--maybe in the process becoming a monster yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stitches

Lydia has two special bottles in the far corner of her nail polish box. The clear one is thick and shiny like glass. She puts three coats of it on her freshly filed nails.

Stiles shoots her a look. She smiles back, blowing on them until they’re dry.

Allison takes another pull of the nice, red wine Lydia brought before putting her patched jeans aside and begins mending Stiles’ jacket. There’s an eight inch rip in the left shoulder and she remembers how much blood there was. She remembers the rotting gore in the Minotaur’s teeth and the rust on every ring in its face. She remembers how the moonlight reflected off Stiles’ blood as it dried in the beast’s fur. She takes another drink and fiddles with the stereo until the Top 40 replace the sound of her own too loud breathing. 

Lydia takes out the other bottle. It’s different. It’s old and the glass murky and the top is a silicon stopper that takes a bit of wiggling before it pops free. The paint is thin and pale indigo. At first it smells sweet, a rush of berries and flowers and honey, and then it smells like nothing at all. More than that. It smells like the absence of scent, and it makes Stiles’ blood run cold. 

“Careful,” he warns. He wishes she would stop.

“Always,” she says, flippant and unconcerned. But she holds her hands out and spreads her fingers wide, making sure they touch nothing, watching them with a scary obsessiveness.

It dries unnaturally fast and she’s quick to put another clear coat on it, really seal it in, before it starts to crack and flake. When they’re dry she taps the tips on the edge of Allison’s bow and Stiles can’t deny that the sharp sound, the solid sound of how strong her nails are, is unbearably attractive.

Lydia holds her hand out for Allison to see, who giggles and sucks the fingers into her mouth. Leans over into Lydia and looks up at her through her eyelashes.

“Careful,” Stiles warns. But the purple is so pretty, and when Lydia reaches out with her other hand to trace her nails down his face, thumb rubbing along his bottom lip, he can’t help but lean into how cold they are against his skin. He knows that no matter what, no matter how long they spend pressed against him, inside him, that the wolfsbane in the mixture will keep her nails cold like ice. And Stiles doesn’t know what he likes better—the danger of it, or the recklessness in her bright eyes.


	2. Fridays

Stiles grabs the vampire by the arm and sort of hefts it up, just enough clearance to hack off another limb and throw it on the steadily burning pile. He makes a pleased sound in his throat at how cleanly Danny’s sword cuts through flesh and bone. So much better than his bat. But it’s not as messy and there’s something very satisfying about the solid  _thunk_  of pulpy flesh. Allison always liked the way the blood splattered around the nails, too. Stiles shrugs to himself and beheads another vampire; he’s only borrowing it. 

Allison bounces on the balls of her feet, eyes wildly alert and dilated like she’s just shot up. She took down four of the vampires in the first two minutes—it’s almost the same thing. “That smells really nice.”

Lydia shoots her a glittering smile and adds another vial of something pale pink and bubbly to the burning pile of corpses… or what’s left of them. “Thank you, I made it this morning. Can’t leave any evidence.”

The chemicals turn the flames an even brighter orange and fill the glen with the smell of something sharp and floral. If any civilians come through this way, there’ll be nothing left to suggest anything went down. The pack will know what happened, but it’ll already be too late by that point. 

With a giggle Allison grabs fistfuls of Lydia’s jacket and yanks her close for a kiss, teeth catching on her perfect lips. 

Stiles watches from the other side of the fire, grin wide and dangerously at ease. He’s smeared in blood and dirt, but it stopped bothering him a long time ago. If anything it helps cover his own scent (that’s what he told Scott anyways). He watches and waits for the rest of the brood. They’ll come as soon as they realize what’s happened, and that’s exactly what Stiles wants. The pack said they’d deal with it, but the pack is so slow sometimes. 

* * *

 

The brood is smaller than expected, so it’s hardly a game to eradicate the rest. That’s Lydia’s word. Stiles prefers massacre. Allison doesn’t care  _what_ word they use, she’s just glad to have gotten rid of the coven and have Beacon Hills that much safer. She  _mostly_  cares about justice and all that; she’s very much like Scott in that. 

After, they pack themselves in Lydia’s shower like they usually do. Even though it’s a bit full, at the same time they can’t get close enough. Stiles follows rivets of water with his tongue and fingers, trying to taste them before it washes all away; trying to taste the forest and the fight and the adrenaline. 

Lydia wrenches his head up and and pushes him against the wall. He whimpers and arches away from the cold tile, but lets her do whatever she wants. He wants whatever she wants. Allison crowds in close behind her, washing Lydia’s hair reverently while she hums a song from the radio. 

Stiles looks at her over Lydia’s shoulder, mouth parted around his own breathing and eyes hazy. Allison sweeps the wet hair aside and peppers Lydia’s shoulder and neck with kisses, never looking away from Stiles, waiting for the exact moment— _there it is_ —when Lydia wraps her hand around his dick. He looks so desperate and she smiles, sucking a mark into Lydia’s neck if only to make her tighten her fingers and have Stiles jerk and gasp.   

Lydia makes him lick her fingers clean, before slapping his hands away and telling him he has to wait, she’s  _not_  having sex in the shower. She’s all wound up and is going to enjoy it. 

He almost slips in his haste and for some reason Allison can’t stop laughing. (Maybe it’s the way she can’t stop remembering the hissing and popping and crackling of the bonfire.) 

They barely towel off after and collapse into a heap of flushed skin and damp hair and warm mouths on Lydia’s bed. There’s no point really. No point when they won’t be getting dressed for quite a while. No point when Allison pushes Lydia back into Stiles’ waiting arms and forces herself between those fleshy thighs like she’s starved. 

She is. 

 _Ravenous_.

She kneads one hand into Lydia’s thigh and coaxes her open, her other hand finding Stiles’. They link together like the stitches in his worn jacket. 

It could be said that Allison enjoys eating Lydia out as much as Lydia likes to be devoured. Stiles runs commentary because that’s what he does best—talks and babbles and makes sure his partner(s) knows how much it’s turning him on, how much he enjoys whatever it is they’re doing, how well they’re doing it. He whispers and groans into Lydia’s ear how hot Allison looks, mouthing at the shell and the skin behind it. Lydia knows. But she likes hearing about it from Stiles’ perspective. 

Allison looks up at him a couple times, their gazes locking, and it makes him shiver. He can see how badly she wants him to take her. How much she aches for it. She squirms against the bed as she sucks on Lydia’s clit, making the other girl shudder and gasp; high and throaty sounds that never fail to make Allison and Stiles’ organs lurch to a full stop. 

When she gets that worked up Allison can’t control herself, can’t hold herself back any longer, and employs her wickedly calloused fingers. Grins into Lydia and makes her climax so hard she reaches up and digs her nails into Stiles’ neck and arches up so beautiful that painters would sell their very souls if only she were to be their muse. 

Lydia grins, lazy and open in a way that few get to see, and allows Stiles to move her like the royalty she so obviously is. Lets him arrange her against the pillows and kiss her slack mouth, kisses her breathless all over again, his hands shaking in the sheets on either side of her. 

Allison choses then to tackle him, to push him to the bed and straddle his thigh, smiling as much as she kisses. And he grins back, hands teasing on her ass as he nips at her lips. (Her mouth and chin are wet; she tastes like Lydia). If sex with Lydia is art, if it is religion and nirvana and seeing angels, then sex with Allison is the hunt. It is fun and safety and as much a game as it frenzied need at sunrise with the window open and cotton sheets.

It is Allison rolling the condom on with her mouth, and Stiles groaning and pulling her hair, asking where she learned that. It is Allison sliding up his body in a sensuous slide that Lydia taught her and whispering “Scott” into his ear. It is Stiles groaning, wrecked at the mere mention because he _knows_  and remembers what is was like, remembers all the neat little tricks his best friend had showed him once upon a time. Always grinning the same way Allison does now.

Lydia pouts, and complains about  _how come I’m the only one who never got to taste that cute boy._

Allison giggles, but cuts off abruptly when Stiles flips them and pushes in, buries his face into her neck as he takes her slow and thorough.

He breathes warm and wet across her skin, hands firm on her breasts, teeth sometimes scraping over her pulse points—his tongue darting out to trace the faint red marks.  She clings to him, arms looped under his and clutching at his shoulders, nails biting at his skin. (In the morning, after many more, Isaac will smirk and cock an eyebrow, as he always does. He’ll grin wicked and comment how Stiles looks like he got into a fight with a werecat. Stiles will let out a bark of laughter and shoot back, “You would know better than anyone, wouldn’t you?” Isaac will flush, fiddling with his sleeves. And Erica will cackle while Boyd watches them both hungrily.)

But now Allison moans and pleads, chokes on Stiles’ name as she tries to roll her hips with his rhythm. Tries to think clearly even though he’s taking her apart slowly from the inside out. Her face scrunches up with pleasure; spit-slicked lips parted around a soundless cry. 

Lydia has never thought she’s looked so beautiful.

Not when she’s got a bow in her hand, blood streaked over her skin. Not when Lydia’s done her up and they’re moving against each other under colored lights. Not when her skin seems to glow and she’s squirming in her chair during English, the toy inside her becoming the only thing in her entire world.

She looks most gorgeous now, and Stiles thinks so too. He knows her every reaction and pulls back to watch her face, watch the way her neck stretches out as she rolls her head back. He comes like that, watching her, licking and chewing at his own lips. Breathes heavy as he thrusts a few more times, almost too quickly, as Allison whimpers and jerks. Too sensitive; too raw and like she’s been cut open and skinned. 


	3. Danny

Sometimes Stiles watches Danny. Danny’s part of their “No Puppies Allowed” Squad, or whatever the hell it is they’re doing behind the pack’s back. He’s part of it, but he’s not _part_ of it, if you catch his drift. 

He works well with them, out on hunts. But that’s about the extent of it. Which is fine. They enjoy catching a bite to eat together, or running down a monster in formations and patterns like a well-oiled machine (they really are getting better at this team thing. They’ve come a long way from bumbling about in the dark, trying to do all of the work themselves and stepping on each other’s toes—metaphorically and literally). 

But sometimes Stiles watches Danny and kind of flushes and smiles and licks his lips in a nervous tick, and Danny will look back at him and Stiles has to remember how to breathe. 

Because Stiles likes Danny. A lot. Everyone likes Danny, but this is different. He likes how honest and open and reliable he is, and the firm set to his jaw when he decapitates centaurs. He likes the dimples that flash briefly when he laughs, and the way he rolls his eyes but still puts up with all of Stiles’ shit. He likes being smaller for once. He likes being physically weaker. Likes getting manhandled around when he forgets himself and is too eager in the middle of a skirmish. He likes sucking Danny’s dick, too. 

Stiles loves the girls, with all his heart. But it’s different.  

He watches Danny, and Danny will smile that crooked grin back, very exasperated but fond. Because yeah, Stiles is annoying and a hyperactive brat at times and can be kind of a dick, but he’s still loyal and thoughtful and is often sincere. And Danny likes how he whines when he’s got Stiles on his knees and can hold him still long enough to get his tongue all over him. 

Stiles watches Danny, and Danny watches back, across a classroom or a pack meeting or a casual get-together. And Allison will giggle and roll her eyes, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ temple and say something like, “Ugh, you’re so lucky. Lick his abs for me?” and will wrap herself up in the softness and perfume that is Lydia. Because they were something before Stiles, something tight and close and warm. And they don’t mind sharing… well, at least with Danny. Lydia loves Danny, and sharing with him seems natural. She wants him to be happy too, and Stiles tends to have that effect on people. They don’t mind sharing for a while because they’re okay by themselves. They are more than okay.  

So Stiles will gather his courage (which is silly honestly, seeing as how often they’re together during the week, and how many times they’ve propositioned one another. They’re not exactly strangers anymore) and sidle up to Danny—usually with a cheesy pick-up line, because he just can’t help himself. But he’ll get distracted by the way Danny will look at him—focused and expecting— or the way he leans down slightly, giving Stiles his full attention. He’ll get a little flustered and end up blurting something like, “Are your legs tired, because heaven’s a long fall from… wait… no, shit that’s not what I… fuck it, please forget I said anything and I’ll just walk away and we can try that again where I’m not a totally tool and you can pretend you don’t—“

Danny will sigh and laugh and shake his head because that’s so Stiles and he’d be more concerned if it went down any differently. He’ll slide his hand into Stiles’ furthest back pocket, effectively putting the shorter boy in the crook of his arm and into the hard line of his body. 

Stiles feels a bit drunk on the smell of Danny’s cologne and has never felt so _consumed_ before. 


	4. Come In, We're Open

It’s quarter after two in the morning when they stumble into Dahlia’s Diner—a grungy little hole in the wall between a thrift shop and a half-forgotten laundromat. It’s the only place that stays open twenty-four hours and they’ve long since adopted it as their home away from home.

Because it does feel like home when they push through the doors into the brightly lit diner. It smells like grease and old leather, the yellow lighting and scuffed linoleum giving the place a warm feel. The stocky woman at the register spares them a brief look from behind her romance novel.

Allison dumps her bow and quiver onto the booth seat as she slides in close next to the window, sighing in relief. She switches on her phone, replying to her dad’s text messages before tossing the device unceremoniously onto the table. Stiles sits gingerly next to her, grimacing as he picks at his stiff jeans and holding his hands carefully away from him. 

“Ugh, this is disgusting,” he groans. “I hate ogres. I am covered in supernatural snot and saliva and god knows what else. Remind me again why we couldn’t have stopped somewhere for fresh clothes?”

“You can shower when you get home,” Lydia says briskly. She sits across from them and puts her hair up into a high ponytail before bringing out her AP Chemistry homework and battle schematics for Allison to go over—all business. But even she looks a bit tired around the eyes, her shoulders dropping as she fishes her calculator from her purse between the flasks of acid and some sort of flash powder that Danny helped make. 

The woman, Matilda, comes over with menus and a tray of cokes and a pot of coffee. She reaches into her apron and passes Stiles a packet of wet wipes for his hands. “You kids want the coloring pages too?”

“Not this time, thanks,” Danny says with a smile and sits next to Lydia, gratefully sliding down into a lazy sprawl, his head back against the top of the vinyl booth and his spread knees bumping Stiles’ under the table. His eyes slip closed and he exhales loudly through his nose. It’s been a very long two days, and he’s past due for some quality time with his bed.

Matilda says nothing about Allison’s bow. She says nothing about Danny’s sword hooked by its strap on the corner of the booth, or Stiles’ bat with rusted nails leaning against the scabbard. She just puts down their drinks and pours coffee into the thick ceramic mugs, nodding when they thank her tiredly. 

She’s never asked. The first night they’d come in, bruised and scraped raw, she’d merely raised an eyebrow and asked if they needed her to call the ER. When they’d shook their heads and assured her it was just a live action role play thing, she’d left it alone and never flinched when Allison stitched up a minor wound, or Lydia cleaned the gore out from under her finger nails.

They’re the only ones in the diner, as usual, and it’s not long before they’re surrounded with warm plates and homework and lore to be poured over. The pack’s supposed to be the one who deals with all this dangerous shit, but they never take the initiative to actually learn things in advance, instead of being taken by surprise and scrambling around until they barely make it out with their lives. It frustrates Stiles daily, and he soaks up defensive tactics against the various kinds of fey while shoveling thick onion rings into his mouth, his burger long gone. 

Lydia’s steadily working through her Chem worksheets as she picks at french toast and strawberries in cream. She may count calories and work hard for her curvy shape, but things eaten in the middle of the night after being chased through the woods don’t count. She’ll eat what she damn well pleases after chipping two nails. 

Danny sucks on a chocolate milkshake as he leans across his empty breakfast plates, discussing contingency plans with Allison. She dips her grilled cheese into her soup as she shakes her head, discounting an idea. “That won’t work if there’s more than three, which is very likely with trolls.”

He shrugs. “Then we might want to get up high as soon as possible if that’s the case. They’re not the smartest and we’ll have time to regroup while they’re learning how to look up.”

“What if we built tree-safe-houses!” Stiles pipes up. His eyes shine with childish excitement at the prospect, looking between the three of them.

“Tree houses, especially more than one in the same area would draw attention,” Allison said. 

Lydia doesn’t look up from her papers. “It’s an advantageous idea in theory, though. If we were to set up caches of supplies at regular intervals, there’s a less likely chance of being caught unaware and defenseless.”

Stiles preens and nods. “Yeah, see, Lyds agrees with me. If she agrees with me it’s gotta be a great idea. C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can spend some good, clean, not likely to die bonding time building caches. Make them with mountain ash so the mutts can’t go stealing all our good stuff when they’re caught being stupid again. And hey! Allison, your dad’s pretty good at the carpentry thing, maybe he could come help us? Especially if it just so happens to be a hot day and—“

Allison cuts him off by stomping on his foot viciously.

“Ow, hey! What the hell was that for!”

Allison groans, “Please stop thinking of my dad that way, it’s really gross and a dozen levels of creepy.”

Lydia puts down her pencil and grins coyly, catching Stiles’ gaze. “Sorry, Allison, I have to side with Stilinski this time. Your father is a special kind of man.”

“Oh my god, please shut up right now. Both of you.”

Danny chuckles and when Allison shoots him a mean look, he at least has the decency to look down. He’s seen Mr. Argent without a shirt, and it’s definitely… inspiring. 

Matilda chooses then to come over to refill their drinks. “You kids doin’ all right? Can I get you anything else?”

“No thank you,” Lydia answers for them; it’s nearing four and they really need to get some sleep if they’re to function at the pack meeting tomorrow—today, whatever. 

She holds out a credit card, and the other three search through their things for crushed dollar bills to cover the tip. Matilda puts up with a lot because of them and saves them heaps of trouble by not asking difficult questions or, even worse, calling the sheriff. They tip as generously as they can as high school students who’s every extra penny goes to weapon enhancements and rare ingredients and musty old books. 

It’s not normal. It’s not safe or ideal in any sense. But Stiles wouldn’t trade anything for the feeling of Danny pressed against his back mid-fight, or Lydia’s feet in his lap while they watch movies on Sundays, or Allison stealing fries off his plate while they discuss how to take down a griffin.

It’s theirs, and none of them could ask for anything more.


	5. Rituals

When the dark, sick-yellow clouds roll in, they start packing. Duffle bags with clothes and toiletries and electronics; plastic shopping bags with snacks and decks of cards and board games. Everything gets placed next to their shoes by the door, socks and jackets already on, keys warm in their nervous fingers.  

When the locus appear, they throw all their stuff into their vehicles and book it to Allison’s house. They stormproof the house and Chris brings in the generators from the garage in case the power is affected. By the time Scott calls to tell Allison to get somewhere safe, to asks if she has supplies, they’ve already built a massive blanket fortress in the living room and have their Netflix marathon started.  

Lydia takes the phone and puts it on speaker so she and Stiles can laugh in the receiver at him. Loud, judgmental laughter and Scott huffs, a little confused and a little hurt and a little frustrated that he’s confused in the first place.  

“Why are you laughing? I just wanted to make sure she’s—that you’re all okay.” 

“We are more than okay,” Stiles says brightly, and crams more popcorn in his mouth, flicking some at Danny. “Dude, you should see this fort we built. It takes up the whole living room.” 

Scott whines in disappointment and Lydia rolls over onto her back, fanning out her hair as she says, “Not to sound ungrateful, Scotty, but I’m pretty sure we knew what was going on before you did. It’s not that hard to notice when local coven activity is going on.” 

“Freakin’ witches,” Stiles mutters, “I hate witches. It’s always witches.” 

There’s silence on the other line and they must be on speaker phone also because someone asks a question and Scott sighs and sounds like he’s muffled the phone against his shirt as he answers. They’ve most likely just scrambled to Derek’s loft moments before, having been caught in the environmentally concerned witches’ spell. The city counsel was trying to clear away a small cluster of trees on the south side of town to build some new offices, but the local “green team” was having none of that. Lydia wasn’t surprised when the environmentalists turned out to be a coven currently using the trees as their spot for rituals and meetings.  

She inspects her nails while she waits for Scott’s attention. She hopes the locus thick enough to turn day into night aren’t the result of grizzly sacrifices—those were a pain to deal with last time, and honestly Beacon Hills probably can’t afford to lose another swath of people, their graduating class is dwindling a dangerous amount as it is.  

“Okay,” Scott finally says, “Stay where you are until we let you know it’s safe to go outside. Let us know if anything goes wrong?” 

Lydia looks to the others and even Danny joins in on the laughter this time. They may be mortal, but all things considered, they’re usually better equipped than the pack to handle these sorts of things. No doubt when the bugs die down, it’ll be them who track down the coven and convince them to stop, either the easy or hard way, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’ll have done it while the pack’s busy still sniffing them out. They love the wolves, don’t get them wrong, but it takes more than some claws and ridiculous sideburns to deal with the supernatural, and killing everything that moves abnormally isn’t always the answer.  

They shout their goodbyes over each other, giggling and making kissing noises into the phone. Allison reminds them to drink water and not talk to strangers and “Derek, if the puppies get fussy or start fighting, don’t hesitate to put them down for naps and time outs, it’s the only way they’ll learn”, while Danny and Lydia take turns instructing the pack on the “proper care and feeding of Jackson”. Stiles is laughing too hard to breathe, let alone contribute, and has dissolved into crying with laughter into a pillow.  

Someone snarls and the line goes dead.  

It takes a while to settle down, but they go back to their movies and Lydia paints Stiles and Danny’s toenails while they play some weird truth or dare version of go fish, and Allison is in the kitchen making alcoholic milkshakes at Stiles’ pleading. Her father looks on with a slight disapproving air, but he understands they’re kids who’ve been forced to grow up far too quickly, and if they’re going to drink he’d rather they did it in the house. Honestly, he’s just relived to hear them laughing.   

And then, two and a half days later, outside becomes habitable again and they suit up to hunt down some witches. Chris definitely doesn’t watch them go with a manly tear threatening to make an appearance. 


End file.
